Unlikely Alliance
by randomLore
Summary: Both Ron Weasely and Draco Malfoy are very different; and it's very obvious they don't like each other. But when Draco ends up on the gallows, will ROn save him? NOT SLASH.
1. Third Banana

Disclaimer: Everything in this story is MINE!!!!! Well... in another dimension. In this one, all Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling. Damn her. :)  
  
Erm... R, I think. Lust, snogs, cursing, and cruel words.   
  
NOTES: angsty, mopey Ron :) Haven't seen many angsty Ron ones, so... TA-DA!  
  
  
  
THIRD BANANA~  
  
Ron Weasley, age seventeen, was cold.  
  
Your fault, He thought. _Your fault you left Hogwarts on Christmas vacation, first time ever. Your fault you were being all moody and freakish and left._ And his fault he spent all his chess tournament winnings on Dungbombs so his parents couldn't pay the General Wizlectric for heat. Everything was his fault. And he was downright miserable. What was the point of coming home? The only thing was nice was the silence, and you could get that almost everywhere in Hogwarts.   
  
He knew why he had came home. To get away from being part os the Dream Team... namely Harry, Hermione, and him. And to decide what he wanted to be doing with his life, which was crap, because the only thing he could do properly was play chess. Chess! That was downright pathetic. Hermione was the brainy one. Harry was the brave one. What was he, the Chess-y one? The dorky one? He looked darkly at the mirror in the bathroom. The ugly one? The poor one, for god's sake?   
  
He wandered outside. He was already wearing his array of homemade sweaters, his dad's old cloak, and a hat. And Ginny's scarf. The temperature difference wasn't much.   
  
He returned to his angry thoughts. He never seemed to stand out. Everything he did was a team effort and he was always that sidekick that had one-liners and red hair. He was sick of being the stupid sidekick. It wasn't particulary Harry's fault, but he was sick of it. He was sick of being addressed as Harry's friend, Hermione's friend, or Weasel number nine hundred and eighty three. The latter, of course being, Malfoy's choice.  
  
Ron kicked the fence surrounding the the Burrow, and it shook. He said. He yelled. He was sick of being poor. That stupid git Malfoy, he probably had no problems at all- Ron could could just picture him strutting around the gigantic Malfoy Manor with a hundred simpering pretty debutantes following, striving to get a peice of the Malfoys's considerable fortune. His ears felt red hot. Another comical feature Malfoy enjoyed tormenting about, the stupid albino prat.  
  
Ron started walking blindly, thinking furiously about Malfoy. After a while, he stopped. Where had he gone? Figures. He got himself lost thinking . Pathetic, that was. He stopped by a sign that lettered in peeling letters, _LADTRA TOWN_. He cursed himself. He was right in Ladtra Town (well, what else), the town famous for witch hysteria and tortures. And hangings. You could get out of burnings, but not hangings. It was a small inbred town filled to the brim of fierce Puritans (a thing of the past, of course, for most Muggles, he knew) and they still had gallows. _Gallows! _He thought incredulously. Without a single doubt, he turned away. Even though he was busy moping, he wasn't stupid.  
  
And tripped over something_._ Well, not completely stupid, though his brothers could challenge that. He flooked behind and he realized nothing was there. Nothing he could see, to be truthful. His stomach clenched. An Invisibility Cloak? A spell? Who would be wandering around Ladtra, anyway? Anyone magical knew that Ladtra was _not _the place to be- indeed, it was high on the list of Dangerous Muggle-Areas that the Ministry updated every week. He had seen it hanging from his dad's study wall, next to the collection of AA batteries and a broken telephone. It didn't make sense for _anyone _to be here- anyone invisible, to be certain.  
  
He considered investigating.   
  
Of course, he decided not to. First, he was cold. Second, he didn't wish to hang around Ladtra anymore than he had to. He concluded his thoughts logically and left. Well. As logical as he would ever be, he thought wryly. And scowled again. He had to stop with the self-depravity thing. It showed too much . Though through Percy's _WQ (Wizard's Quarters) _magazines, chicks dug sensitive boy acts, he knew that was pure crap. Padma'd just laugh if he cried about a sunset, and so would many other people. Like Hermione, and the rest of those Slytherins. He felt his stomach squirm. Lately, he had been having very strange feelings about her. Jealousy, mostly, and he felt that the feeling was replicated. He felt obliged to threaten bodily harm to anyone who tried to hex her, for god's sake. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but-  
  
_You're a bloody coward, Weasley. Spit it out. _He grumbled to himself for while about Hermione, then grumbled about how talking to oneself didn't do any good, then stopped. He could shout out his for all he cared, and still nobody would hear him. Since when did anyone _really _hear him out, for god's sake? Last time was in... fourth year, and he felt so guilty for making the Great Harry sad, he apologized. Not that it was particulary his fault. But still, _he _ was the always the great one, the wonderful one, and he was the sidekick.   
  
Well, it wasn't much, he had to admit with himself. The feelings. Jealousy, mostly, and loyalty, and, he paused. _Was _there anything more? He really had to think about that one. It seemed nothing but jealousy, and a bit I want to be more than friend-ish feeling. He stopped thinking about it. He knew perfectly well that Harry was _very _interested in Hermione, and they were probably snogging in Library now. Who knew? Or cared, for that matter. He didn't, not now, anyway.  
  
He arrived home to find that the heat had been turned on. Fred and George's cheque from Ye Olde Joke Shoppe had come in. His mum fussed with him for a while, and made him set the table and fold the laundry, while she clucked her toungue disapprovingly at Ron's Muggle-wear: it was obvious she didn't like sandblasted Diesel jeans. Not like it mattered; It was his money.  
  



	2. Crucio Rompaer

Draco Malfoy was currently moping in his bedroom, experimenting with changes of hair color. He sighed. Only blond looked good on him. And it was such a pale color, too.   
  
It was times like this when he thought he was an albino.  
  
_Aren't you the shallow little ass, _he told himself. _Worrying about your hair color while Voldemort's is on the rise. While Harry Fucking Potter and Ronald Fucking Weasely and Hermione Fucking Mudblood Granger are out waiting for you so they can be heroes again, and so you can be the villian. Again. _Then again, he reasoned, the Dream Team was not important compared to the rising of Voldemort.  
  
A spasm of fear passed over his usually icy face. His father was increasingly tense; he didn't mind using his heir as a punching bag he was angry, or scared. He didn't mind hurting him at all. Out of memory, his slender fingers traced lightly the blood-rimmed scar on his thigh. His father, to put it simply, scared the shit out of him. He remembered, dimly, when he cried on the day of Grandmama's death. To see her, so white, so pale, so fragile in a _box _scared the nine year old Malfoy heir like nothing else. His father, though, just looked at him scathingly, and said,  
  
_Malfoys don't cry, Draco. Don't you be the weakling who destroys our proud lineage. _Well, that had shut him up. He had never, never, cried again. He swallowed the tears. Like a Malfoy.  
  
But he didn't want to be a Malfoy. Or a Death Eater.   
  
_Draco, the Dark Lord doesn't share it's power. _Those words had shook Draco out of his happy little world full of _Crucio _and _Imperio _ like nothing else had. Words, of course, uttered by Dumbledore. But he had slowly realized it was true.   
_Don't you be the weakling... _Every single cruel word his father had thrown at him before, every scar mark, every bruise, came whipping back at him with such force from the memory, that he staggered back to his bed. He had tried. Tried nearly everything, to gain his father's approval. He laboured long in the libraries until he could perform the Imperius, and numerous other Dark Magic Spells. But to no avail. Only that blasted Voldemort caught the elder Malfoy's attention.  
  
_He... Father didn't mean it when he said I was a failure, he didn't, _he thought, gritting his teeth. _What? _A taunting little reply emerged. _So Father didn't mean anything? The bruises from losing to Potter, the scars from the Cruciatus, the words... the words....  
  
_This was utterly stupid. He was talking to himself.   
  
It wasn't good being at home, he realized. His father had been so furious over the hex-marks Potter and his gang had left on him, on the first day home, he spent his return in the Malfoy basement (once the dungeon), slumped and bruised from the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. _Wish Potter could see me now, _he had thought savagely, and the smirks on Potter and his friends's faces made him ache more.   
  
Not like it was good being at school, either. Eating with the every Gryffindor's death glare on the back of his head, and having to stare down McGonagall's imitation Dumbledore-look wadn't exactly paradise either.   
  
Still, it was better than what he got here.  
  
Does master Malfoy want breakfast? The timid voice of the new house-elf, Blingy, broke through his clouded thoughts.  
No, it's okay. Go away, please, he said absentmindedly.   
Master Malfoy, your father wants you, said Blingy, plainly terrified.  
  
If it was at all possible, Draco turned paler.  
  
_I guess it could be worse, _he reflected. His father, not realizing that it was only the middle of Christmas Break, and that he was not going to face Potter for a while, had decided to rant about how he would bring failure to the family. Blah, blah, blah.  
  
It used to hurt him like hell. The cruel, lashing words that exited his father's voice like frip, and the spells that shot out of his wand. But Draco had developed a bit of a shield- nothing hurt a Malfoy, his father told him, and now hardly anything did, including his father. He smirked, but inside he trembled from the hate, but he withstood the insults, expletives, and snaps. He was a Malfoy. Not voluntarily, but a Malfoy. And Malfoys didn't get hurt easily. His father paused. He was unfortunately very intuitive, and Lucius stared Draco down. I see you have not been paying attention, he breathed. Draco swallowed.  
I've been _listening. _He countered, raising a pale eybrow.  
But not adhering, Draco. If you keep this rebellious teenager' act, you will be-  
_Be what? _Draco thought. _Be tortured? Be hurt? Be burned with the Dark Mark? Father, you've thrown every thing you've had against me. You destroyed my broomstick at eleven, and locked me up in my bedroom during the summer. You started cursing me when I was twelve- when you were mad at Mum, you used me. You put the Cruciatus Curse on me when I was fourteen, Christmas Vacation when Potter was a Triwizard Champion and I was not. You locked me up in the when I was fifteen, and you haven't stopped since. So now what? What can you do to me now?  
_You've been naught but a failure to me since the beginning. I've caught you reading _Muggle _books, Draco, you know that. You've never excelled in academics, or sports. You've been a useless second-placer behind Harry Potter, and since you've came to Hogwarts, Slytherin has never won the House Cup, or the Quidditch Cup. You disappoint me. And I don't like being disappointed.  
Draco couldn't help but flinch.  
Draco Malfoy, pay attention! Lucius barked, losing his temper. Listen! You've been useless, a shame to the Malfoy crest, ever since you entered Hogwarts. I should take you out of school, and serve you right up to the Dark Lord-  
_No, _he thought desperately. _He couldn't, he wouldn't take him out of Hogwarts. That was nearly his only haven, where he knew that an Unforgivable wouldn'tcome cracking past the wall, hitting him-  
  
_But, Draco, I won't. Since you're not academically adept at all, you need all your seven years. Down to the last couple of months. Follow me! Draco followed his father, swallowing deeply and trying to control himself. The basement. _Oh, shit. Shit shit **shit. **_****Draco, though, was right about his destination. As if that was any consolation.   
  
The heavy door of iron clanged shut, as Lucius used all of his six feet, two inches to cower his son, using the five inches he had to all his power. A little reminder, Draco. You need those desperately, don't you?  
  
On the outside, Lucius's son looked calm, composed, dispassionate. But inwardly, he was shaking, shaking with fear, hurt and anger. _Crucio Rompaer! _Lucius commanded, adding on the last word from ancient Dark-Art rune books, making the curse more powerful. Too powerful.  
  
To the dissatisfaction of Lucius, his son did not cry out in pain, pain that Lucius loved to inflict upon him... dispassionately, he watched, as his only heir struggled silently, teeth gritted, with the curse he had inflicted. Lucius tired of his heir being as icy and invincible as he wished to be- the _only _one that should be powerful in the Malfoy House was _him. _Lucius Malfoy _only. _He smiled a bit, though, betraying the Malfoy poker face. His son was beautiful, just like him. But he worried- he should have never adhered to Narcissa's insisting on keeping the boy at Hogwarts, for he felt that Draco was turning against him. But no, he listened and obeyed, because he was god-damned desperate to keep Narcissa with him. But she was slipping away- he could see through Narcissa's plots to drift away from the Dark Side, and betray him. He saw the revulsion in her eyes when she saw the Dark Mark on his arm.   
  
Yes, indeed, all his attempts to please that goddamn woman had been to no avail. It was like in school- lor, he still winced at how he would beg, beg, Narcissa van Buren to come with him to the Three Broomsticks- the little pale Slytherin trying everything possible to make the popular Hufflepuff fall in love with him. But everything failed, and whenever he was angry, he saw the Narcissa part in Draco, and knew Draco would leave him too. Tenderness, love, listening didn't keep Narcissa to him. Maybe the fear and the pain would hold Lucius and Draco together. Oh, yes, it would. He saw the suffering in Draco's face, but he still did not cry out loud. God, was his son beautiful, beautiful as his mother, too perfect. He longed to sully it, to destroy it, but Draco was in a way too much like him. He wouldn't crack. So Lucius lifted his wand.  
  
Draco went limp, blood snaking down his forehead to drip like dew over his pale eylashes, as he lay sprawled, helpless, defeated. Lucius loved the sight. His son would be to afraid to leave him, to abandon him, and he relished that. He strode away, and carefully shut the huge iron door of the basement.  
  
Draco tried to open his eyes. But they were caked with his blood, dark read sealings. He almost gave up, before he heard _Malfoys don't give up, _in a tiny little voice in his head. He bolted up, before his weakness caved in on him, and the yell of anger he tried to let out dwindled to a weak moan. He collected himself as best as he could, breathing deeply.  
He muttered, as bandages whipped out of his wands to cover his numerous bleeding injuries. He managed to sit up, breathing a bit to hard, to examine himself. _Not too bad, _he thought dispassionately. It had been worse before. But this time, Draco thought, a flickering smile on his ashen face, he had a plan.  
  
He had gone to the basement a while back, carefully placing his Nimbus and his Invisiblity Cloak in a dark corner of the basement. He crawled, since he couldn't stand, to there, and carefully rolled on to his broom. While slipping his Invisiblity Cloak, he carefully swerved into the open window that had once fed cold, unwavering blasts of wind on to his salted wounds. Now it freed him.  
  
Once he had escaped the basement, he swayed lightly on it, being buffeted about on the wind, before smirking, if not a bit wanly. _So, Father, I'm gone. And I'm never, ever, ever coming back again. Because Malfoys don't forgive, or forget. Remember that little lesson you taught me?  
  
_He leaned forward, his Invisibility Cloak fluttering in the wind. He steered, blindly, stupidly, through the cloudy night, far away as he could. He felt old, tired, clinging stupidly to his thin stick of a broom, not even knowing where he was going. At last, though, sheer exhaustion took hold of him. So he brought his broomstick down, down, until he crashed into sweet, soft, pale snow, still covered by the Invisibility Cloak. And so he slept.


	3. Meeting and Parting

*Drools* Reviews! Reviews!Yayness!! *skips around in a circle thowing cyanide*   
  
KellieAnne: I adore you! Two reviews, and oh, yes, Draco stories are _so _much more fun than Harry-Potter-Saves-The-Day stories. Blech. That's why he's not going to be very important in this story. I'll just put him in to be a bit jealous and confused.  
Antigone Q: Thank you so much! Compliments make so very happy  
Ayinsee: Yes, yes, it can be cute, in a twisted kind of way.  
  
A/N: Lucius is a little sadist, isn't he? I was going to put in a bit of incestous thoughts in his little skull, but decided not to, and have him just frantically jealous of Narcissa. Maybe I'll do a story on them. Hmm.... And yes, this is NOT SLASH. Slash kind of wierds me out... this story is mostly going to be about a friendship. Ron and Draco... my favorite characters!!! Yay! *resumes skipping*  
Anyway, Ladtra is important. And my first chapt, which I don't want to edit again, is off-putting. As you see, it's only PG 13. Less obscene than I thought, so ignore that A/N. Not this one, since it's so very special.   
  
Disclaimer: I make no profit. I do not own anyone but Draco and Ron, because one night I went to Hogwarts and captured them and they are currently in my closet right now next to my knife collection holding them for ransom. HA! Fooled ya! *sticks out tounge at lawyers* But tis true, I do not own anything but my twisted plot. *Evades Mental Institution People* Happy now?   
  
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Draco was leaning by a tree. He realized how stupid he was, how dumb it was to come here. Where the hell was he? All he saw was snow. Stupid, stupid, goddamn snow. He didn't dare go anywhere that might contain Muggles.  
  
Ah, Muggles. He used to hate them- hate them at first when he was younger, because his father did, so he did. But in third year, Dumbledore had made him take Muggle Studies. He complained to his father, but he couldn't do anything. But his father hadn't taken it out on him, just the house-elf, and had killed him. The Malfoy family had a new house-elf almost every two years. Just the word _Malfoy _and _given away _put together shut up every single house-elf in England. And he hated them for a while, because of that know-it-all-snot Granger, who had no life and was such a teacher's pet (though he knew he wasn't one to talk, the last thing in the world he wanted was another Golden Gryffindor). But now he almost envied them, envied the small apartments because they were warmer than the gold-plated Malfoy Manor, with rusting iron in the inside. The Malfoy name was covered in decay. And death.  
  
He was sleeping, still sleeping, in the cold wet pillows of nature, when he had the rudest awakening possible- a kick in his aching bruises, before hearing a soft of fall. Quickly, not even bothering to see who it was (he didn't know, of course, that that person was a fellow wizard), fearing it a Muggle, he drew his Invisibility Cloak softly about him and slipped noiselessly away, by a small, lonely tree on a small bump in the snow.  
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Lately Ron had been strangely attracted to the borders of Ladtra, where it was at least quiet- no shrieking mirrors, talking fireplaces, Mum, Dad, and especially the _so Ron Weasely, what are you going to do with your entire life because your family is stinking poor and you have to find a job soon because if you don't you're going to starve and look more stupid than you do already so you better shape up grade-wise or no Ministry Department will take you then despite pretty good OWLs and then were will you be while Granger is out discovering new spells and stuff and Potter is saving the world? _conversation. He tired of it. So every day he wandered out in his assortment of sweaters, but he never tripped over the same invisible object again.  
  
He was still wandering, bored with his life, and even sick of it, thinking of his uselessness to You-Know-Who. Even _he _wouldn't be able to use Ron, that was how stupid he felt. He was second place- even perhaps third place, the third banana. He didn't know, of course, that Draco felt the same way. His wandering feet took him to a small little bump by a small pine tree, and he sat by the top, staring blankly around, until-  
  
_What the HELL? _He screamed in his head. There was _ Malfoy, _out of all people, slumped against that tree. Malfoy didn't see him at all, as he was staring blankly like Ron was. So Ron took a couple looks until he formed a wonderful insult:  
You look like shit, Malfoy.  
  
Startled, Malfoy looked at him. He was pale, wan, and was that _blood _crusted a bit on his eyelids? What was he _doing _here, after all? Ron was a bit dazed from the strangeness of it all, but was very pleased with himself; he had never really gotten the better of him before.  
  
Draco, of course, was equally shocked. What the fuck was _Weasely _doing here, all lumpy with millions of sweaters on him? And _shit. _The last thing he needed was Potter's sidekick laughing at him, and telling his tale in school. _And then I found Malfoy, stupid arse, looking all wierd and shitty-looking and wounded right by a Muggle Town! _And then, of course, a royal laugh and poke from the Gryffindor crowd.  
I should say the same, Weasely, if you didn't always look so bad, He said cooly. And what are you doing here on such a fine day?  
  
Draco had expected a red, pissed off Weasely ready to punch the hell out of him, so he plunged into his robes before realizing that he was indeed stupid. No wand. _Crap. _But Weasely didn't even attack him, just said quietly with a low laugh: Very funny, Malfoy. I'm not even going to try to counter that- we all know how wonderful and witty you are. And I might ask you the same thing. A couple feet away from Muggle-ville, alone, no wand, bleeding, blank-looking- might I add more to show how strange your circumstances are to my point of veiw?  
  
Draco took some several steps back- this wasn't the Weasely he knew; the Weasely he knew would be resembling eggplant about the face, and _he _would be resembling a squashed tomato from being Weasely's punching bag. He was surprised- no losing temper, not even a blush- evidently Weasely had become a bit more intelligent; or either he had developed a mask.   
  
He opened his mouth, to make a smark comment, before closing it. What was the point, anyway, to this fighting? Potter, who had caused his father to hurt him, wasn't there- neither was Granger. To come to think of it, he had never _really _hated Weasely, not like Potter or Granger, but rather laughed at him. But he didn't seem very laugh-able now, not while _he _himself was in a bad situation. So he just raised an eyebrow and said softly, almost resignedly:  
No. You don't need to. But you don't have to know what I'm doing here. It's none of your business, Weasely.  
  
Ron blinked. No insult, no counterattack at all. _Well, hasn't he changed then? _He thought nastily, before saying breusquely: Have it your way, Malfoy. Have fun. He strode off.  
  
Draco leaned back on the tree. He actually found that he missed Weasely- talking with someone besides himself was actually pleasant. The conversation was nearly devoid of insult, a rare event, except for maybe when he talked with Mother. But he returned to his thoughts: of how stupid he was. _How wonderfully interesting,_ he groaned. He almost followed Weasely, in hope of food, a bed, but dismissed it. What would Weasely do for him, after all Draco had done to him? They didn't like each other at all. Being around poor people made him nervous, too. And they _still _didn't like each other- no short conversation was going to change that. He recounted all the times they had fought, insulted, and yelled at each other, gotten each other in trouble, and he realized that he had been the instigator. Not that he felt guilt- he thought basically, _oh well, _but it was pretty obvious that Weasely wasn't going to let him into his precious home. Though it was probably for the best: more stares, either of pity or loathing hurt a Malfoy.  
  
So he drew his Invisibility Cloak upon him, and closed his pale eyes.


	4. An Unexpected Excape

A/N: Madi, I don't know if Ron'll end up with Mione, but... I dunno. *Looks around with puppy eyes* Reviews? Reviews? Please? *sob* I'm so unloved! *breaks stuff* LOL, not that I'm unappreciative of everyone who reviewed; I love you guys! Group hug! *Once again brilliantly evades Mental Inst. People* Oh, yes, and anyone with strong faith _please _don't be offended. This part is absolutely essential to my overall plot, if there is one, and I have nothing against religion.   
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter characters; not even gorgeous Weasley and Malfoy, damn it, so leave me alone to mope in my claustrophobic bathroom now.  
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_When Draco woke up, he heard voices- Not of his father, or Weasely's, the most recent ones, but unknown voices. And he wasn't very cold, either. A horrified Draco realized that he _had been found. _By most likely Muggles. And he was indoors. _Crap. _  
Who is he, walkin' around with strange clothin's? Never seen him around, b'fore, I warrant. Outsiders are durn trouble.  
He must be some part of a strange cult'r summin'.  
Paganistic cult, no doubt, Draco heard, a silkily cultured voice unlike the rustic others.   
Yea, Reverend. Think we sh' hold im fer a bit?  
No doubt, I think. We'll just question him. Draco decided he didn't like that voice- silky, cool, educated. Shit, _he _should be that voice, not the stupid heap in the corner without a wand, broomstick, or even Invisibility Cloak. He stretched his tired muscles out and yawned very obviously.  
The three voices stopped immediately.  
Why, hello. Great hospitality, Draco remarked idly.  
Who are ye? One of the rustic voices asked.  
Draco let out a snort. You sound just like that oaf, Hagrid.  
Three voices, even the educated one asked simulataneously: Who's Hagrid?  
Some paganistic inferior, no doubt, the educated one said smugly. Draco let out a growl. Only _he _should be smug. And what the hell was a paganistic inferior? After all, he fucking _was _the Malfoy Heir. He had more money than this whole town had all together.   
  
_No, you don't, _a little nasty voice said inside his head. _Shit. _He _had _run away, hadn't he? And Lucius was so going to do something drastic, and do something like disown him... fuck fuckety fuck. Fuck. He had no money on him. No wand, no cloak, no broomstick. What an addlepated, uncomfortable way to run away from home.   
  
Draco rehearsed songs created entirely out of expletives.  
  
Are you glad of something, outsider? The cultured voice said smoothly. It was a Muggle with greying hair and a suit.  
Glad for the hospitality. Glad to be an outsider. Not much scenery. Or shopping locations. Comes with the... unfortunate lack of educated people around this place of shit, eh? Draco spat out, but very afraid nevertheless.  
Shu' up, an irate farmer-like person with overalls and a parka.  
Ha! Try me, you stupid Muggle! Draco spat, tired of this stupid situation.  
Three voices said in unison. However, it was that stupid reverend who regained control. Again. God, why wasn't it one of those stupid farmers?  
Obvious a cult term for those who like to bask in the glory of our Lord, the reverend said solemnly.  
_The Lord? The **Dark **Lord? Oh... oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck....  
_I don't like the Lord, Draco said innocently.  
Three voices snarled in unison. Again. Shit, how _did _they do it all the time?  
It's... obvious, Reverend, he's in a pa- er, pagan cult, like ye said, The other farmer said while baring his teeth in the most unnatractive sneer. Well, Draco would teach him. _He _had the best sneer ever- it should have been patented. He knitted eyebrows, narrowed eyes, and bared teeth. The whole scene- a farmer and a freak in robes engaging in a glaring contest- would be very comical if Draco hadn't been that freak. Which kind of sucked.  
I think, Mr. Jonathan, that we should take him out to the courthouse. He doesn't need to be in your... er, little shack of a house anymore.  
Reverend, did ye just call my house a- a shack?  
  
Now, if Draco wasn't the person that was in deep, deep trouble, he would be laughing by now. Or sneering. _Hah- _that conversation sounded just like the ones he had with Crabbe and Goyle. Or his father and that oaf Hagrid. _Shit_. His father. What would _he _be doing? He would now, Draco was gone. He would know Draco ran away. He would be _looking _for Draco. And Draco was in deep, deep shit if Lucius found him. _And Draco needs to stop talking to himself in the third person, _his little nasty demon in his head stuck his demon-tounge at him. Bloody voices, he thought. I escape Lucius, and get a Lucius-like demon that I _can't _escape.   
No, of course not, Jonathan, was the smooth reply. _Heh. Liar._ Now, take him to the court-house, since he refuses to identify himself. Or his cult, since he openly damned our religion.  
_What the fuck? What religion? I didn't say one expletive at them. Well. Fuck you. Bloody Muggles. They should just go diving off of the American Rockies. Bloody useless, Muggles.   
_What's a cult?Draco pouted, the one expression he used with his mother.  
Nice try, ye crazy pagan, The parka-d farmer said nervously, wrapping his ham fist around Draco's slight shoulder, as did the other identical one.  
Get off, you bloody Muggles! Was Draco's correct Malfoy ettiquette response. His shoulders felt strangled. Gee, as if there _weren't _enough bruises on them. Stupid Muggles. He decided he didn't like them anymore. Or their stupid books. J.R.R Tolkein could just rot in his grave, for all he cared. That and that bad portrayal of wizards. They weren't _all _ugly and old, and they didn't associate with Orcs. Then again, Bulstrode was in his year. He smirked a bit.   
  
Well, wasn't this a strange peice of events. Found by Muggles, no wand or magical stitch about him. The Daily Prophet was going to have a field day. Ugh. He wondered why he was going to a courthouse. Malfoys didn't get in trouble. Or rather, they did, but they either A) Frightened the police of with the patented Malfoy sneer; B) Killed the police; C) Used their great lying skills D) Used their connections to get out of trouble; or E) All of the above. Draco liked doing the last. It was the most fun. Unfortunately, none of the options could apply now.  
  
Aaagh, bloody Muggles.  
  
So now, admist the most unpleasant snow, which he hated for sure, he was marched outside, when he thought that he saw a flash of red hair. Fucking Weasely! He bet Weasely was coming to gloat, and gloat, and gloat.... He growled. And all of a something, something was thrown at him.  
  
Not hard. Soft. Silky. Cool. _His Invisibility Cloak. _His burly farmer-boys let out simultaneous cried of surprise (Damn, did they do _everything _in unison?) as he disappeared. Not thinking, rather like his escape, he ran as hard as he could.  
  
Shit, shit. He didn't like running. Running brought sweat. Sweat ruined and smelled up expensive robes. Running equaled sweat equaled bad. Anything strenous was not good. Not after _Crucio Rompaer, _anyway. He found himself by a battered sign, reading _LADTRA TOWN. _Weasely was calmly waiting for him, holding his precious broomstick. Without thinking, Draco yanked it from him.   
  
Was that you, Weasely? He snarled.  
  
Ron didn't know why he he had saved Malfoy from those bloody Muggles. He had been walking, moping (of course, again) when he saw Malfoy, again, as if once wasn't enough... only he was dragged away by two burly Crabbe-like people in overalls and those stupid puffy jackets Muggles had. So, curious, he had followed them, holding Malfoy's stuff. Expensive stuff- an Invisibility Cloak and a Nimbus Two Thousand and One. He saw Malfoy taken into a house, then taken out, with someone resembling Percy's old boss. Not thinking, of course, he threw the cloak at Malfoy. All he knew was that they weren't going to treat Malfoy nicely. Not in that freak town Ladtra, anyway. Of course, he should have been happy, and just given Malfoy the finger before scampering away. But no. He played the hero. He never played the hero. It was kind of cool, though. But _Ladtra, _god, how did Malfoy not know about Ladtra? It was one of the most infamous places in the wizarding _world. _Almost as high as Salem. The hysteria, the hangings... They still had those rickety old gallows up. Downright bloody _creepy, _that was.   
  
Er. Yeah, Malfoy. See any other wizards around? Ron nearly drawled, very pleased with himself.  
  
Malfoy was sputtering. Ron found this incredibly hysterical.  
  
What... the fu-... Bloody hell, Weasely, what was that for?  
  
My god, Malfoy snarled at himself. _Weasely _had saved him. Well, Weasely, are you deaf? Weasely was straring blankly into space, but Draco's words had jolted him.  
D'you- d'you _know _what they did in Ladtra, you arse? Weasely said, irritated. There are gallows up there, you know, for _our kind_. I- I couldn't let you go there.  
Aw, Weasely plays the hero. How sweet. Don't you just love him? You stuck-up little _attention whore_. You should have been happy to see me on your precious gallows, so why did you do that?  
I don't play the hero. Not willingly, anyway, Ron muttered, his voice shaking a bit. Bloody arsehole. He should have left the stupid arse at Ladtra.  
You're avoiding the question, Weasely, Malfoy said patronizingly. You gay or something? Did you fall in love with me? I know how easy it must be with my look-  
Oh, bloody hell, Malfoy. You're a short little slimy albino git with wispy hair. The only person that liked you was that squashed bulldog Parkinson-  
You're avoiding the question, Weasely, Draco growled out. He was _so _not albino. Was not at _all.   
  
_Draco found Weasely's pondering looks into space were really irritating. So, Weasely? Remember?  
I- It was the right thing to do, Ron said finally. It sounded so corny, so stupid, but there was no other reason. He couldn't stand Malfoy, but it was plain wrong to leave him there. It was probably a stupid thing to do, though. He shouldn't have bothered. Giving Malfoy the chance to recycle those old gallows would be more amusing. But no, he played the fecking hero, and now he had a slimy albino prat annoying him. Then again, Malfoy looked really confused. That face of being deprived of being a know it all was really kind funny looking.  
  
Ron was rewarded by a scornful laugh. Good one, Weasely. Spoken like a true fucking Gryffindor.  
Ron felt a flash of anger, and he knew he was about to lose it. What the hell was Malfoy saying? He had just saved bloody Malfoy from the Muggles, and he got insulted for it. Malfoy was the bloody gay one. He had PMS worse than Hermione. And- and no straight person would have that flippy blonde hair. Ron bet he bleached it.  
  
Malfoy, I should just hand you right back to those Muggles. You're standing in front of the gate. You'll get caught. Put those gallows to good use, your skinny little neck would. I- I bloody got you away from the Muggles. Shouldn't you be thanking me, or something?  
Malfoy looked considerably shaken now. He stepped away from the gate, but he regained composure. Yeah, Weasely. I should be kissing your handmedown robes and lumpy sweaters for that. You know, you're such a bloody archetypal Gryffin-  
There was _never _a Slytherin who didn't go bad, Malfoy, Ron spat.  
That's what everyone tells me. Slytherins are evil, Slytherins are on the Dark Side, Slytherins, Slytherins, Slytherins- well, my fucking father says it differently, Weasely. About Slytherins. In between giving my the Cruciatus curse and snapping five of my wands, you know. Fuck you all- all you Gryffindors. You have it so easy, don't you? The whole fucking world _loves _you, you're the world's golden boys. You don't worry about people shuddering and saying, _Oh, he's a Slytherin. He must be evil, he has to be. _My whole fucking life was about Slytherin; every single friend I had who wasn't one got scared off, or scared _me _off to do that. But you wouldn't know, would you? You wouldn't care. You could hear my bloody screams from the manor and say, _Oh. Well, he's a Malfoy, and a Slytherin, so he deserves it. Ha ha! _You would say that, wouldn't you? I know you enough for you just to laugh. And here you are, waltzing in and saving the day- and then I'm supposed to repent for my so-called evil sins, right? Well, Weasely, you and that bloody Potter can just rule the school, laughing at those outcasts, the ones that no one wants, the Slytherins. That's why they joined You-Know-Who. Because they were exiled, they were idealists, and _no one_ cared about them! Malfoy shouted angrily.   
  
You bloody little arsehole. Don't you even _talk _about Harry like that. He fucking- he fucking threw You-Know-Who down, and without him you'd- you'd all ready have that Dark Mark on your arm that you supposedly hate so much.You're talking about not being evil, eh? Well, remember your comment about Diggory- and you haven't stopped calling people mudbloods'- so don't give me crap about being really good inside- and you, you Slytherins never tried to act your supposed good' side, all you ever did was try to piss us off- so don't even start about that! Weasely's face resembled an eggplant. If he wasn't cracking his huge gigantic knuckles all the way, and if Draco had had his wand, he would be laughing by now. But now Draco was deadly serious, and pissed- he, out of all people, had lost his temper, and mentioned Lucius. Oh, fuck. He had, hadn't he? He tried everything to regain his icy tone. He counted to ten. He pictured him hexing Weasely. He pictured- fuck it. It wasn't working.   
  
Potter's been hit with one fucking curse. I've- I've been hit with many. Potter got lucky, though, right? He's fine. _Fine. _You-Know-Who got resurrected in fourth year, and he's _still _fine. He's the most famous person our age and he never did anything but _get lucky. _I'm the one who got hit by more curses than you can count on your inbred freckly fingers, you- you- you _arse,_ Draco finished. He was quite sure he was pink by now. It was very unflattering on him. But right now, he was shaking. Not from Weasely's little rant, but the fact that the freckly git had actually _saved _him from the bloody Muggles. This sucked.  
  
Don't- talk- about- Harry- like- that, Ron said through gritted teeth. So- he got lucky, you arse- but you can't say it wasn't a good lucky. He brought You-Know-Who down, and you should be happy, though, right? Because you're not evil, right? Eggplant, eggplant, eggplant. Ron felt steam rise from his ears.  
  
Silence. Both boys were standing on the hillock on which they first met that winter.  
=============================  
A/N: KellieAnne, I cannot say how much I appreciate your support. And everyone else: THANK YOU SO MUCH. I REALLY APPRECIATE IT!  



	5. Bloody Weasely

It was almost comical, though. The scene: two angry boys, one with pale hair and a pink face, and another one, with a purplish-red face and red hair. One was towering over the other. It was the one that looked like he was going to kill the shorter boy- not like any of them were particulary short.  
  
Draco felt small.  
  
Ugh. He hated feeling small. There _was _a reason why he ran away in the most unsatisfactory manner. He scowled deeply. His father. Fucker. The silence, a glowering sort of angry silence that was so solid you could slice into, was broken by Weasely's clearing of throat.  
Got anything left to say, Malfoy?  
Plenty about your face, Weasely, Draco spat, feeling dreadfully inadequate.  
My fist has something to say to your face, Malfoy, Weasely drawled in an most unWeasely-like manner, which caused Malfoy to throw out his trademark sneer.  
Oh, dear, I'm so scared. Is the big bully going to throw sand in my face?   
Weasely said airily. This was pissing Draco off. Why wasn't he purple anymore? I can just leave you here. You don't have a wand.  
I- I never said that, Draco spat. Since when did Weasely get so smart? Bloody Weasely. Draco hoped he would strangle on his fifty or so sweaters.  
Well, it's obvious, Weasely said smugly. You would have used it on me by now if you had one. And you wouldn't be here in the first place. It was true. Fucking Weasely.   
Borrowed Granger's brain, I see, Draco countered, trying desperately to think how to get out of this mess.   
  
Aha! He had done it! A red shade passed over Weasely's face. Finally. Weasely sputtered for a bit, and fell silent.   
  
Drat it.   
  
Fucking Malfoy, Ron thought. He was having the time of his life, confusing Malfoy and pissing him off, and he had lost it. Ron did _not _want to talk about Hermione and Harry. The whole point of coming back home was to _not _think or talk about them. Something he was going to try to do was discover a talent and get Padma Patil to have a crush on him during this vacation. Obviously, it wasn't working. He didn't need to be reminded of his failure. Gah.  
Still sputtering, he finally shut up, realizing how stupid he sounded.  
Lost the brain, have you, Weasely, Malfoy smirked, obviously in control again.  
Shut the fuck up, Malfoy, Ron snarled, losing patience. And have fun in the snow with the Muggles, he snapped, leaving the stupid git behind.  
  
Go to hell, Weasely, he thought, until a good insult reached him. _Go to hell, but you're living there all ready, with the real estate so cheap there, eh?_ Ah. Perfect. To bad Weasely was walking away from him. Draco worked out several plans. He could fly somewhere. He could go to Hogwarts, or he could follow Weasely. The last wasn't appetizing. At all. He realized, though, with a shock, that he wouldn't be able to find Hogwarts. He had overheard the bushy-haired Mudblood Granger when he was younger prattling about how _Hogwarts was hidden. _Oh, shit.  
  
No. He would _not _follow Weasely. He had Malfoy pride. Malfoys did not follow Weaselys, especially a Weasely with fifty sweaters on. No... he _would absolutely not. _ His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten for a while. _At least Weaselys eat, _he reminded himself. No... he would _not _think about following.  
  
Fuck.   
  
His legs had not obeyed his mind, and they were now following Weasely. He had to think. Was he _sure _that this was the only option besides staying here and starving to death? Ugh. Starving. Leaving his georeous body for dirty Muggles to recover. Nah, _that _for sure wasn't happening.  
  
Ron paused. Was someone following him? He turned slightly around, and was highly uncomfortable when a pink Malfoy came up to him sputtering. It was sort of amusing actually.  
  
Weasely. Er...ah...um-  
Spit it out, Malfoy, Ron said, beaming happily.  
Fuck you, Weasely, Malfoy spat, looking miserable. You're not making this any easier.  
Ron said smugly, thoroughly enjoying himself.  
Malfoy scowled, looking much like himself again. I need help. You know what I mean. I need to get back to Hogwarts.  
Ron decided to say, something very Trelawny-ish. And I should help you... why?  
  
Draco decided to chance it, and spit Weasely's words back at him: It's the right thing to do.  
Weasely conceded. But maybe I don't feel like doing the right thing. You never even thanked me for saving your slimy little life.  
Draco felt like smacking him, then thought better of it, looking up. This was very fustrating. Running away never did solve anything, he thought angrily. It ended up with looking up a redhead clown with sweaters. He put on his sneer but he felt dreadfully inaquedate. This was becoming all too common. Fine, Weasely. Thank you for throwing an object at me that caused me to run away from stupid Muggles and therefore saving my life. Happy now?  
Weasely shrugged. And I thought you could afford ettiquette lessons, he said. And grinned. As in he wasn't being serious. Draco felt a flash of annoyance. What was he now, a _friend _of Weasely? As if he could sink no lower.  
  
But he was hungry. Even the most beautiful aristocrat needs to eat. So Draco didn't bother replying. He followed Weasely back to his .  
  
Ron knew _exactly _what he should have done. Snigger at Malfoy's attempted apology and waltz back home, humming loudly. But, no, his stupid conscience. Again. So he whacked his conscience in his head and went back home, slowly. Malfoy followed him, slowly, at a cautious distance of about ten feet. He grinned. _Malfoy _was afraid of _him. _Because Malfoy couldn't hex him, he knew, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.   
  
Draco fumed. This was such an obvious transparent Gryffindor trick. Stupid Weasely looked like he was prancing in the snow. He mentally whacked himself; apologizing to _Weasely. _Ugh. Yuckyuckyuck... He kicked a stone with his expensive shoes. Stupid Weasely. His feet hurt. He was _not _made for such physical efforts. That was for minions that you could throw in the stove, not him. He was... indespensible. Yes, that was an OWL vocabulary word. He congradulated himself. If he kept this up, he could beat Granger soon. He knew he was always smarter than her anyway. His feet hurt more.  
  
Bloody Weasely.


End file.
